


Amnesia

by mynameispaige



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Suspense, Violence, torture scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:56:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameispaige/pseuds/mynameispaige
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are on a case when they stumble upon something...and someone...completely unexpected. Skylar has no memory whatsoever. She wakes up tied to a chair not even knowing her own name. After she is rescued due to the cunning Sherlock Holmes and the brave John Watson, she is invited to 221B to recover from her traumatic experience. But when her memories begin to resurface she realizes that she is not all who she appears to be...and a dark man is waiting in the shadows for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

I woke up from a dazed and hazy stupor strapped to a chair. My head pounded, and my neck was aching. I opened my bleary eyes to see a strange white room that was completely unfamiliar to me. The white painted walls were chipping with age, and the whole room stank of mildew and damp. A fluorescent light hung above my head, much too bright for my tired eyes. I moaned and shut my eyes to block out the sharp wave of pain that crashed down on me. My head was pulsing with a menacing headache, my stomach rolled uncomfortably and my body ached from having been sitting in this chair for who knew how long.

"Skylar?"

My eyes flew open at the small voice despite the bright glare of the light shining in my sensitive eyes. It sounded like a small girl's voice, shaky and scared. She was most likely in a similar situation, strapped in a chair as I was. We were back to back, but when I craned my neck I couldn't see her. It was just the two of us in this small room, but I didn't realize that she was talking to me for several moments. I hadn't recognized the name she was using for me.

"Skylar are you okay?"

If that was my name why didn't I recognize it? Ignoring my heightening panic, I answered her.

"I'm fine." My voice was hoarse, my throat throbbing uncomfortably. The insides of my throat felt like they had been rubbed raw with sandpaper.

Have I been screaming?

There was a small sigh of relief from the young girl seated behind me. "I...I thought you...you were..." she didn't finish as she burst into tears. She didn't have to finish her sentence for me to understand what she was going to say. She had thought I was dead.

I sure felt like I had been dead. Now that my body was catching up to my head I was starting to feel even worse than I had when I first opened my eyes. Looking down at myself I took stock of my injuries. My wrists were red and throbbing, blood oozing from the raw skin and drying on the thick straps around my wrists. My arms were bruised heavily in patterns that looked like suspiciously like handprints. There were also several shallow cuts caked with dried blood decorating the tops of my arms that burned faintly when I moved. My chest ached with the rise and fall of my breathing, and I suspected more bruising there. My face felt pretty banged up. My lower lip was cracked and bleeding, and I felt more dried blood caking my face from a cut above my eyebrow.

I could hear her quiet sobs from behind me. "Really..." I whispered to the girl through clenched teeth, "I'm fine." She quieted some, but I still heard the occasional sniffle.

But I wasn't fine. My heart was pounding in my chest. I was trying my best to take deep breaths so I wouldn't alert my small companion to my distress, but it was getting increasingly difficult to rein in my panic. I wriggled uncomfortably in my chair, hissing when doing so agitated the tender skin on my wrists and ankles. 

Glancing wildly around I took in the room, looking for a door, a window, anything. There was nothing within my line of vision, so I assumed that the door must be on the opposite side of the room.

I shivered. The room was cold, and all I was wearing was a tattered white T-shirt and black sweats. The sweats were thin and worn, providing little in warmth. I curled my toes trying to warm them, my feet were bare against the cold concrete. I leaned back against the chair, trying to calm my increased breathing. I focused on the small things that seemingly didn't matter, but it helped to calm me down. I looked down at myself to study my hair, hoping it would prove a decent distraction. My hair was long, black, and braided. Strands of hair were falling out of the braid here and there, like it had been a while since it was first braided.

"How long have I been asleep?" I needed a distraction, and I needed to stop thinking about how much I didn't know. My mind was frighteningly devoid of memory. I needed to focus on what I did know so I wouldn't hyperventilate. I felt precariously close to the edge.

"A long time, but I don't know. It was scary. You weren't moving or anything." she whimpered.

"Did...anyone come in while I was out?"

"Just the guy that brings food."

"Did he say anything?"

"No...he just unstrapped my arms so I could eat. It was gross, but I was so hungry. I'm still really hungry..." her stomach rumbled as if to attest to the fact.

"How long ago was that?"

"I don't know, a long time I guess."

I desperately wanted to ask questions about whether or not she knew where we were or why we were here, but I stopped myself when I realized that she probably didn't know about my sudden amnesia. I couldn't ask any questions that would alert her to the fact that I didn't have any memory. I pushed down the whimper that threatened to slip past my lips.

"I'm sure they'll bring us food soon..." I trailed off when I heard a commotion. It sounded like voices and the pounding of feet heading this way.

I heard a quit whimper from behind me. "Skylar?" Her voice was high pitched with fear. The voices drew nearer, but they were so jumbled I couldn't make out a single word that was being said. They were angry and loud, echoing off the walls.

"Skylar?" she wanted me to tell her that it was going to be all right, she wanted my reassurance. I wanted to give it to her, but I wasn't so sure myself that we were going to be okay. I decided to lie through my teeth, forcing my voice to be calm despite my own racing heart.

"It's all right, we're going to be-"

I was interrupted by a loud bang from behind me. I craned my neck to try and catch a glimpse of what was going on, ignoring the painful twinge in my neck. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some large men crash into the room.

"Grab the girl and get out! I've got this one." a smooth voice barked. I couldn't see who it belonged to. Two large and burly men advanced on the younger girl and ripped off her restraints. She began to sob uncontrollably, calling my name as if I could help.

"Skylar!"

I wrestled with my own restraints, disregarding the pain of the rough material scraping the already raw skin there.

"Leave her alone!" I shouted coarsely. They paid me no heed as one of the burly men slung the sobbing girl over his shoulder like a sack of flour. I saw a flash of her blonde hair before she disappeared around the corner, her screams reverberating off the walls, her desperate cries piercing my ears and heart.

I froze as a man sauntered into my field of vision. He had his hands clasped behind his back and was regarding me cooly. He was wearing a plain white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves and black slacks. His two top buttons were undone, revealing a muscular chest. He had short black hair that was carefully gelled to give him that "windblown" look. He had a sharp, prominent nose and dark eyes, a brown so dark they seemed to be black.

He looked calm despite the clamor of the men rushing frantically about from behind me in the hall. He regarded me with his dark eyes, looking me up and down. He stood directly in front of me with his hands still clasped behind his back.

I didn't dare speak, though I wanted to scream at him and demand where the little girl had been taken. My tongue felt as if it had been glued to the roof of my mouth, and I swallowed dryly.

"Seeing as we are out of time I think it would be in your best interest for you to start talking." he almost purred. His smooth words sent shivers down my spine.

"Wh-what?" I stuttered.

I was suddenly blinded as his hand whipped across my face, leaving my vision blurry. My lip bled afresh, dribbling down my chin and onto my stained shirt.

"The time for games is over. You will start talking now, or I swear you will regret it."

"I don't know what you're talking about-" I had hardly gotten the words past my lips when he struck me again. Stars popped from behind my eyelids and I hung my head, trying to bite back the whimper that threatened to escape my throat.

"Fine, we'll do it the hard way then."

I opened my eyes a fraction to see him pull out a wicked looking knife.


	2. Scared

"Oh no, please-"

"Start talking, and I suggest you hurry. I haven't got much patience left for this." He caressed the knife lovingly, the blade sharp and lethal. I assumed I had already felt the kiss of the knife from the look of my arms and the many lines there, but I obviously couldn't remember. Nor could had I any idea what this man wanted from me.

"I...I don't know. I can't remember anything. I swear to you I don't know anything!" I tried to swallow the panic that was creeping into my voice and speak clearly, hoping that I would be convincing. The man waved his knife back and forth in front of my face, and I never took my eyes off of it. It glittered cruelly in the harsh light, making my heart stutter frantically.

"Well I'm sorry to say..." he glanced up at me while running his thumb over the blade, "I don't believe you." Suddenly his hand snaked out and gripped my forearm tightly. I struggled to wriggle out of his grip with no success. I gasped as I felt the cold metal bite into my skin, warm blood trickling out of the cut. It stung, and he pulled back a bit to look into my eyes.

"I've been gentle with you up until now. If you don't start talking it will only get much worse for you." His eyes glittered darkly as he gripped my arm harder, making the blood flow faster from the new cut. 

I swallowed, my eyes pricking from the pain. "I don't know what-"

This time the knife went much deeper. I cried out in shock and pain, my arm burning. My blood was now dripping onto the concrete floor, a crimson puddle that was growing alarmingly fast.

"Try again."

I couldn't stem the flow of tears that were now pouring from my eyes. My arm pulsed painfully, my heart pushing blood out of the wounds that burned like fire.

"I-I don't-" I sobbed.

This time the knife went deeper than it had ever gone before, and I could not bite back the scream as it was ripped from my throat.

 

-John-

"Didn't take you very long to solve this one." John remarked as they rode in a cab toward an old abandoned building at the edge of the city.

"Honestly it was all too easy, even you could have figured it out if you would just observe."

John Watson sighed as his flatmate launched into a long and, though he hated to admit it, impressive string of deductions that now led them to the building they were pulling up to.

"-you only had to look at the flowers underneath the girl's window," Sherlock rambled on. John interrupted him by thanking the cabbie after paying him for his troubles and exiting the vehicle.

"Sherlock are you sure this is the place?"

"Positive." wrapping his long coat around himself, the detective began loping up the steps leading to the front door of the building.

"Shouldn't we wait for Lestrade?" John whispered as they reached the door. The detective didn't answer, but instead pushed the door open silently. John followed with a huff. Of course they wouldn't wait. The lobby smelled of dust and mildew, the paint was chipping off the walls and the carpet was stained and threadbare. Sherlock began looking around for any sign that anyone had been there, while John pulled out his gun from the waistband of his jeans, just for precaution.

"John, here."  
The army doctor lowered the gun and headed over to where Sherlock was squatting on the floor. "What is it?"

"Footprints. And over here-" he straightened suddenly and strode over to the old wooden front desk. "The dust has been disturbed here as well." John followed and saw that the thick layer of dust had indeed been disturbed, and quite recently too, as the dust had yet to resettle on the now clean area. It looked like a hand had been swept across the surface of the desk leaving a wide streak.

"Careless." Sherlock muttered as he investigated the dust with his miniature magnifying glass. John stood and crossed the room to investigate the stairs. The well-worn carpet thick with dust and grime was imprinted with footprints here as well.

"Sherlock-" he was interrupted by a loud bang. The two men stood and exchanged glances. The noise had come from somewhere nearby. Sherlock turned to John and motioned for him to go up the stairs, while he gestured that he himself would investigate the rooms down the corridor. John nodded so Sherlock would know that he understood, then quietly began his ascent up the stairs.

He walked on the balls of his feet so to not make any noise, wary of the creaking wood that would give away his position should he misstep. Once he stood on the landing of the second floor he began cautiously moving down the hallway. He strained his ears for any sounds, but he heard none. When he reached the first door on his right he pushed it open silently and peeked inside. When he found nothing there, he continued on to the next room. He checked each room in the hallway, finding nothing each time. He was about to head up the next flight of stairs when he heard a shout.

"John!"

It was Sherlock. John whirled as he heard the sounds of a police siren and shouting. He was about to head back the way he came to find out what had happened, when he heard another sound, so faint he had to strain to make sure he was hearing correctly. A second later he heard it again; the sound of tortured screaming coming from above. 

A woman's scream.

Ignoring the sounds of the scuffle on the floor below, John ran to the end of the hallway and up the second flight of stairs. He ran past all the rooms, glancing in each one before moving on to the next. When he did not find anything, he ran up the third flight of stairs. When he reached the third floor landing he paused. He heard the sounds of someone crying from somewhere nearby. The floor was stripped bare of the carpet up here to reveal cold concrete, so he tread softly so his shoes would not give him away. There was a light from the end of the hallway, leeching out from under the last door in the hall. John took a deep breath and held his gun warily out in front of him, slowly nearing the end of the hall.

He paused when he was just outside, crouched next to the doorknob. He paused to listen, his ear pressed to the crack of the door. He heard the unmistakeable sound of a woman crying from within. He was about to push the door open gun raised, when he heard a voice that gave him chills.

"I've given you enough chances, and I'm afraid my patience has run out. I'm going to give you to the count of three before I put a bullet in your brain. One."

It was a man's voice, smooth and low but laced with venom, and he was threatening this woman. She began to sob even harder, her cries ripping at John's heart. He was frozen in place, frantically trying to come up with a plan of action.

"Please...please I don't know anything..."

"Two."

John's mind raced. This woman's life was on the line, and John was her only hope of survival. Steeling himself, he stood and prepared to open the door, gun in hand.

"Three."

John barged in the room with his gun raised, and quickly located the threat. The man was facing John with his gun pointed between the woman's eyes. His eyes widened in surprise as John flung the door aside and aimed his own gun. Before the other man could react, the army doctor fired a shot, sending the man crumpling to the floor with and anguished cry.

John hadn't fired a killing shot, but instead had aimed for the man's knee, rendering him immobile and, presumably, in a lot of pain. Ignoring the man's anguished moans, John rushed over to the woman strapped to the chair. Her chin was pressed to her chest, her eyes closed. John hurriedly checked for a pulse, relieved to find her heart still beating, if not faintly. He then noticed her arm which was bleeding profusely from three alarmingly deep gashes. He quickly tore a strip from the bottom of the girls shirt and wound it tightly around the wounds, trying to staunch the flow.

He looked up in alarm as the door swung open once more. It was Sherlock and Lestrade.

"What's all this then?" exclaimed Lestrade as he took in the grisly scene in front of him.

After John had successfully bandaged the wounds on her arm, he proceeded to undo the thick straps that held her in the chair. He took care with the straps on her wrists, so not to further the damage already inflicted from chafing there.

"She's losing a lot of blood..." He muttered almost inaudibly.

"John!" Lestrade had gone over to the man bleeding on the floor. He had passed out, either from the pain or from blood loss. John didn't care either way.

"Help me get her out of here." John said as he moved to the straps that bound her ankles to the chair.

Lestrade nodded and raised his radio to his mouth to bark out a swift order. "I need a two stretchers, quickly! Top floor, end of the hallway." But John didn't wait for the stretcher to come. He instead picked up the unconscious young woman and held her gently in his arms. As he carried her from the room he noticed Sherlock standing in the exact same place he had been when he first entered the room. John noticed that the consulting detective hadn't said a word since his arrival, but he couldn't ask him about it just then. Sherlock stared at the figure in John's arms with a puzzled look on his face. His eyebrows were lowered into a scowl as his eyes flashed back and forth, taking in every detail.

John carried the unconscious woman down each of the three flights of stairs, but it wasn't difficult because she was incredibly light. She looked like she hadn't been properly fed in weeks, if not months. He could feel her bones sticking out from underneath her ragged T-shirt.

He got a lot of strange looks from the officers that had congregated in the lobby and outside the front steps as he walked through, though they could easily have been looking at the unconscious woman in John's arms. John brought her outside and set her gently down on a waiting stretcher, then stepped back to let the ambulance take her to the hospital.

"John what happened up there?" The DI's breathing was slightly labored from having run up and down the entire building's flight of stairs. "We heard the shot and headed right up, but that still doesn't tell us anything. So what happened?" Lestrade asked from behind John. He sighed as he turned to face the Detective Inspector, and relayed the entire course of events to him as he took notes. From behind him John saw the man with the smooth voice being carried out of the building on a stretcher, with Sherlock trailing behind. He stood in the shadow of the building, barely visible and unmoving. John excused himself and headed over to his flatmate.

"Sherlock, who was she?" he asked quietly, turning to stand beside the taller man. Sherlock didn't answer, but instead continued to stand silently, looking on as the police bustled about. John waited for an answer, but he too was distracted by the hustle and bustle. They both stood in silence for a moment or two, processing the events that had just occurred. There had been many moments such as this ever since Sherlock had returned; moments where both men would stand and look on as the world moved on around them. Those moments were overlooked by both men, neither realizing that it had become a common occurrance between the two. 

"She wasn't supposed to be there...so why was she?" Sherlock said suddenly, breaking the silence that hung in the air like a cloud. The detective sprang into action, which startled John after having been still for so long. "John I need you to go to the hospital and question the girl. Get any and all information that you can."

John followed close behind the detective as he walked down the road. "What about you?"

"I'm going to talk to Amy Nash."

"Who-oh, you mean the girl we were originally looking for? So you found her then?"

"Yes, while you were upstairs and otherwise preoccupied, I found the rest of the kidnappers trying to smuggle young Miss Nash out the back door. Luckily Lestrade arrived in time to catch them all."

"Oh. Was she okay?"

"Yes she was fine as far as I could tell, at least in comparison to..." He trailed off, but John understood.

"So she wasn't...tortured. That's...good. Right."

"Yes."

"But, Sherlock, you should question her later."

"What? Why not now? She could have valuable information as to-"

"Sherlock, she's only just gotten rescued after having been kidnapped. Give her some space."

Sherlock growled in frustration. John sighed, knowing that his sociopathic flatmate wouldn't understand. "Why don't you go talk to Lestrade. See what they're going to do about that man. The one that...well..."

Sherlock hesitated before giving in. "All right, but I still need you to find out about that other girl. Get any information you can, then send me a text."

John nodded and watched as Sherlock turned and headed back the way they had come, toward the crime scene. John sighed once more, then turned and walked down the road to find a cab.


	3. Waiting

-John-

John hailed a cab, heading to the hospital. After paying the cabbie and stepping out he rubbed his eyes tiredly. He had nodded off for a bit on the drive here. Glancing at his watch he saw it read 12:32AM. Stifling a yawn, he went inside and was directed to the room that the young woman was being cared for in. He opened the door cautiously to see her sleeping form laid out on the hospital bed.

She had been bandaged up, and was hooked up to several monitors. An IV drip was attatched to her arm, dripping fluids into her bloodstream. For the first time, John got a good look at her. She was very slight, she would be shorter than John when she was standing. She had a bandage taped to her small, slightly upturned nose. Her hair was a dark brown, almost black, and was done in a sloppy braid. Her hair looked lank and lifeless, like she hadn't had the chance to wash it in a long while. Her split and bloody lips were full, a pale coral color behind the blood. Despite all the hospital equipment and sterile bandages, she was quite beautiful.

John crossed the room and pulled up a chair beside the bed. She had thick bandages wrapped around her arms, hiding the deep gashes underneath inflicted by a knife. She had been tortured to the point where she had lost so much blood she fainted. If John had not been there...if he had delayed a second more...

John clenched his fists against his legs, stifling the urge to hit something. Taking a deep breath, he focused his attentions on the woman laying unconscious. She was stable, her breathing normal, heart rate steady. Having talked to another doctor before seeing her, he knew the extent of her injuries: several bruised ribs, raw skin around the wrists and ankles, a minor concussion, and and an alarming amount of bruising all over her body. Then there were the knife wounds. There were forty-two in all, spread over each of her forearms. Most were shallow and would heal without a scar, but the three most recent cuts were a different story. They had to be stitched up, using eight stitches for the largest of the three alone.

He had been reassured that she would make a full recovery, but John wasn't so sure. She would have to live with that traumatic experience for the rest of her life. What she had gone through wasn't something easily forgotten. Having had patients that had suffered through torture themselves during his time in Afghanistan, he knew firsthand what the repercussions were.

Stifling another yawn, John sat back in his chair and tried to get comfortable. He was content to stay there until she woke up, but after a short while his eyelids began to droop, the lateness of the night and events of the day taking their toll on his weary body. His eyes soon slid shut, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

 

-Sherlock-

Sherlock raked a hand impatiently through his curls as he paced relentlessly in front of the sofa in 221B. He was frantically trying to piece together the bits of information to form a coherent explanation for all the facts that had been placed before him. He growled occasionally in his frustration, impatient. Why hadn't Lestrade texted him already? Surely they must have gotten some answers from the kidnapper by now. The interrogation must not be going so well then.

Sherlock flopped unceremoniously onto the sofa, pouting. John had told him to wait until later on until he could talk to Amy Nash, the nine-year-old girl who they had recovered from the kidnappers earlier that evening, and Lestrade said he would contact Sherlock as soon as they got any information. Sherlock went through the case once more in his head, trying to figure out where he had misstepped.

The girl's father, Richard Nash, had borrowed some money from a notorious loan shark. When he was unforthcoming with the payment he owed, his daughter was kidnapped and held for requital and ransom, and would be released in exchange for the money that was owed. Amy had been taken from her room in the middle of the night, and her parents woke the next morning to find her gone and a note placed on her bed with the ultimatum. It had taken next to no time at all for Sherlock to deduce where young Amy had been taken.

"None of that matters now..." he muttered to himself as he fiddled restlessly with his phone, staring at the ceiling as if he could find answers there. He was itching for information, longing to go out and find more pieces to the puzzle. Pausing a moment he fired off a quick text to John.

I need answers. Is she awake yet? -SH

Sherlock waited, but there was no reply. John must have fallen asleep at the hospital. With a huff, the detective shot to his feet and began pacing once more. He made a mental list of all the facts that he knew, muttering aloud to no one in particular.

"She was found in the same room that the Amy had been, there being two chairs, and the one not occupied still warm from having previously been used to restrain the younger girl. They removed her and rushed down the stairs, trying to divert our attentions so we wouldn't discover the man still interrogating the woman upstairs. A horrible attempt at that, incredibly sloppy, but why? What is so important about her? What does she know?" he trailed off, lost in his ruminations once more.  
He pulled up an image of the nameless young woman to the forefront of his mind. Bruises, some old and fading, others new and still developing. Caused by closed fists and pressure of heavy hands. She had been beaten, several times. A cut above her left eyebrow from a blow to the head, presumably made by the ring on the attackers' finger. Attacker is right-handed. Incisions on her arms made by a knife, very sharp, the user took great care of it and made sure it stayed sharp. Majority of the incisions are not deep, will heal without scarring. Older wounds are already scabbed over, signs of possible infection. Variation of the time of initial injury, same as the bruises. Cuts steadily deepen with time, the newest incisions being the deepest. Cracked and bleeding lips, sallow skin and protruding bones, results of dehydration and malnutrition.

The amount of time she had been in custody ranged from several weeks to a month, going by the state of her wounds. In that time she had barely been fed enough food to be kept alive. She had obviously held tight to the information the man with the knife wished to glean from her, or she would not have been held for so long.  
"What do they want from her?" Sherlock raked his hands through his hair once more before picking up his coat and scarf, desperate for more answers. He hurried down the stairs to hail a cab, heading for the hospital.


	4. Hospital Room

-Skylar-

My head was throbbing painfully when I came to in a darkened hospital room. I blinked the film from my eyes so I could see clearly, taking in my surroundings.

My lower body was covered in a plain white hospital blanket. They had changed me out of my ratty sweats and T-shirt and put my in a plain hospital gown. I shifted my position on the bed so I could be more comfortable when I felt a twinge from my inner elbow. Upon further examination I saw several tubes hooked up to an IV drip attached to the sensitive skin on the inside of my elbow. I swallowed nervously, the sight of the tubes and needles making my stomach flip uncomfortably. Just below the IV my arms were swathed in thick white bandages, covering the wicked gashes that the horrible man had put there with his glinting knife. Using my free arm I reached up to rub my aching head, noticing more bandages on my face.

I froze when I heard a small grunt from my left. Looking over I saw a man slumped against the wall, fast asleep. I regarded him warily, not sure why he was here in the first place. He had short, sandy blonde hair. His face was careworn, and twisted in pain from the dream he seemed to be having. He wore a cream jumper underneath a dark black jacket, with an old pair of jeans. He hadn't taken off his shoes, so he must not have meant to fall asleep. As I watched him I noticed his hand twitching occasionally in his sleep.

Though I had absolutely no idea who the man was, I somehow felt calmer in his presence. He had a sort of kindness about him, and I couldn't help but feel drawn to him in a way I had never before experienced. I felt that I could trust this man with my life. Then the possibility that this man could very well be the one who saved my life hit me. Who else could he be? Unless he was someone from before my amnesia, someone I knew in a life before now...but that couldn't be it. It didn't feel right. Somehow I felt that the life I had before was long gone, lost along with all my memories.

Coming out of my ruminations I noticed that the man was now suffering from a nightmare, tossing about and muttering unintelligibly.

"Nnng...no...Sherlock..." he mumbled in his sleep. His face twisted painfully, as if the dream he was having was causing him actual harm. I felt a rush of affection for this man, this man who had quite possibly saved my life, and I unwittingly reached out to place my hand over his. I wanted to comfort him, seeing his face like that was making my heart twinge in sympathy.

I decided I would try to wake him. Ignoring the wave of dizziness that hit me like an ocean wave I sat up, gripping his hand in my own. I shook him lightly.

"Hey...wake up. It's only a dream." I whispered. It did nothing to rouse the man from his sleep, however. He only began to toss more violently, almost falling out of his chair.

"No, Sherlock don't...get back, step back!" he cried out. I took him by the shoulder, shaking him a bit more forcefully this time.

"Please, wake up!"

I gasped in surprise and pain as he suddenly reached up and gripped my wrist with a strong hand.

"Sherlock!" he yelled forcefully, jerking awake. Panting heavily, he narrowed his eyes as they registered a different scene from the one he had been experiencing while asleep. He calmed slightly at the realization that it had been a nightmare, but his grip did not loosen on my bandaged wrist. I bit my lip trying not to cry out in pain. My eyes pricked with tears, my wrist throbbing painfully under the pressure of his grip.

When he finally realized he was gripping my wrist, his eyes snapped up to catch my face in his gaze. His eyes widened as he made the connection between my tears and my wrist he was gripping.

"Oh, uh...!" he let go quickly, pulling his hand back as if I had shocked him. I cradled my throbbing wrist to my chest, shying away from him without meaning to.  
"I...I am so sorry...did I hurt you? Oh...jeez I am so sorry. I didn't mean..." He buried his face in his hands. I gave him a moment before I carefully reached out to him again, pulling his hand away from his face. He looked up at me in shock and surprise, obviously expecting me to cringe away in fear from him. I gave his hand a squeeze and smiled, ignoring the twinge of pain from my split lip.

"Really, it's fine." I whispered raggedly, my throat still sore.

"Are you sure? I mean-"

"Yes, I am fine." he still had a guilty look on his face despite my reassurances. I was still holding his hand, and let go, embarrassed. I felt a blush creep onto my cheeks unbidden, and I looked away. "Sorry..."

He let out a light laugh, and I saw him rubbing his neck from the corner of my eye. He cleared his throat quietly and glanced around the room while I did the same. There was an uncomfortable silence that passed between us for a moment or two before our gazes met once again, sending us into more embarrassed titters.  
"So..." I turned to him, curious as to what he had to say. As soon as our eyes met however, his words seemed to catch in his throat. He swallowed nervously, tripping over his tongue as he spoke. "How are you feeling?"

I paused a moment before answering, giving myself a personal assessment. "I have a headache..." I rubbed my forehead at my temples, making an effort to push the ache out of my head with my fingertips.

"Would you like me to get you a glass of water?" he asked, sitting up as he did so.

I smiled shyly, warmed by his kind gesture. "Yes please."

He got up and crossed the room to the sink to fill up a small disposable cup for me. I watched him quietly for a moment, listening to the sound of running water. 

"What is your name?"

He turned, carrying my water with him and holding it carefully so not to spill. "Erm, John Watson."

He handed the small cup to me. "Thanks," I said quietly, sipping the cool water.

"Don't mention it..." I could feel him watching me as I drank, his eyes searching my face. After I finished I held the cup in my lap, not wanting to look up at him. I was nervous; I could feel the heat of his stare burning on my cheeks in another blush.

"I want to thank you." I said in and undertone, still not looking up at him.

He was confused. "You already did-"

"No I don't mean for the water." I looked up at him now, right into his...beautiful...blue eyes. How had I not noticed his eyes before now? I shook my head slightly to clear my thoughts, and focused on what I had been saying. "I mean..." But all of a sudden I couldn't remember what I had been saying. What had this man done to me? My heart was stuttering in my chest, all because I had noticed his eyes. No...not just his eyes. The emotion there. He had so much hidden behind his eyes and I had just barely caught a glimpse of it. I felt winded, like the air had been knocked out of my lungs. I swallowed nervously, aware that I was staring at this man...John...and he was waiting expectantly for me to elaborate. He was looking at me with a mixture of concern and confusion.

"I want to thank you for saving me."

He looked taken aback, and he blinked several times before replying. "How...how did you know it was me?"

"Why else would you be here?"

His eyebrows creased as he studied me. Pursing his lips thoughtfully, he opened his mouth to say something, but he decided against it and closed his mouth. He did this several more times before I interrupted his indecision.

"Okay...you've got questions." I said with a sly smile.

He gave me another bewildered look and laughed in a tone that sounded somewhat like disbelief.

"Am I right?" I smiled.

"Yeah...you're absolutely right..." he remarked, a smile still playing on his lips.

I frowned slightly. "What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing, it's just..." he rubbed a hand across his face. "You remind me of someone."

"I do?"

"Yeah."

Realizing he wasn't going to continue his train of thought, I prompted him a second time. "So...you've got questions."

He snapped out of his amused demeanor to respond. "Yeah..." he paused a moment, his face slipping from amused to somber as the tone of the conversation turned a corner. "What is your name, for starters?"

I thought back to when I was strapped to a chair with that little girl, to the name she had called me. "I think...it's Skylar."

His eyebrows creased. "You...you don't know for sure?"

I glanced up at him, then lowered my head to stare at my hands resting in my lap. "I woke up in that chair...and I couldn't remember anything. Nothing at all. The little girl that was there with me called me Skylar...so I guess that must be my name, right?" I looked up at John, hoping that he would rid me of my doubts.

He seemed uncertain of how to answer me. I sighed, knowing there was no way for him to answer me in the way that I had hoped he would be able to. "Next question?"

I could feel the tone of the conversation take a turn, becoming less playful and more somber. John had that look in his eyes again, that mixture of concern and confusion swimming across his features. "If..." he began uncertainly, "If it wouldn't bother you...erm...could you tell me what happened? Only if you would feel comfortable with it, if it would be too painful for you-"

"No it's fine I'll tell you."

He raised his eyebrow, a bit taken aback by how resolute I was in my answer. "Are you sure?"

"I'll be fine." I smiled slightly, but I could tell that it wasn't convincing enough. I sat up straight, and began my story. "I woke up strapped to that chair. I hurt all over, and the bright lights hurts my eyes. I couldn't remember anything. It was like a blank slate. There was a girl with me. She said my name was Skylar. She didn't know that I couldn't remember her, and I didn't tell her. I didn't want her to be any more scared than she probably already was." I paused, my train of thought momentarily diverted. "The girl...who was she? What did they want with her? Is she all right?"

John smiled reassuringly, noticing my worried state. "She is absolutely fine. Her name was Amy Nash. Her father had a run in with a notorious loan shark. When the money wasn't repaid the daughter was taken for ransom. She's fine now, though."

I breathed a relieved sigh. "That's good, I'm glad." After another half smile, I went back to telling my story. "After a while we heard shouting and running. They came in and took Amy away, but they left me. There was this man. He..."

Without warning there were tears in my eyes. I wiped them hurriedly away as they spilled unbidden over my lashes and down my cheeks, but as soon as they started I knew there was no way they were going to stop. I pressed a hand to my mouth to hide the sobs I could feel building in my throat, squeezing my eyes shut.

I felt the bed dip slightly as John joined me, wrapping a hesitant arm around my shoulders as if he wasn't sure how I would respond to the contact.

I instantly leaned in to him, burying my face in his neck. I was openly weeping now, my tears spilling onto his jumper. He had taken off his jacket, and his warmth enveloped me like a soft blanket. It shocked me how much I had unknowingly been craving human affection, having been recently strapped to a chair for an inhumane amount of time. He held me like that for what felt like hours, letting me cry on him though I was getting his nice jumper sopping wet. He rubbed my back in small, soothing circles, holding me as I fell apart.

Eventually I quieted, my sobs reduced to the occasional sniffle. He held me still, though I was sure he must not be very comfortable.

"I'm so sorry..." I whispered tiredly.

"Don't apologize." He whispered back, placing a kiss on the top of my head. I felt my heart splutter in my chest at the small, affectionate movement. "I know what he did to you. And I swear, that will never happen to you again. I won't let anything happen to you."

I blinked, realizing exactly what he was saying. He was promising to protect me. He seemed to notice the depth of his words at the same time as I did, because he was suddenly very nervous. "Um...what I meant was-"

"No." He had been trying to pull away from me, to get off of the bed. I reached up and grabbed the front of his jumper, not ready for him to leave. "Please...don't leave me."

He relaxed, settling into a more comfortable position and letting me lean back on him again. "All right...I won't." I snuggled up to his side as he wrapped both of his arms around me, and it wasn't long before I was fast asleep in his arms.


	5. Bad Memories

-John-

John sat in the darkened hospital room with the sleeping Skylar resting against his shoulder. He leaned his cheek against her hair, thinking about what he had learned about her so far.

Her minor concussion may not have been so minor after all if it had caused enough damage to wipe her memories. This was troublesome on many levels. She would not be able to help them much on the case of her capture and torture, seeing as the information she had been presumably been captured and tortured for originally was beyond her reach.

But there was more to worry about than just the sake of the case. Her entire life, her childhood and all of her memories, gone. She didn't even know her own name for goodness' sake.

John sighed, holding the sleeping Skylar a little closer. She mumbled incoherently in her sleep, and curled in closer to John.

Seeing her cry had almost been too much to bear, and John's heart had twisted uncomfortably upon seeing her distress. He wanted desperately to go after the man that had caused her so much physical and emotional pain to hurt him as much as he had hurt her, and then more. Holding her in his arms now, he felt the irrepressible need to protect her. He needed to know that she would always be okay, He had meant what he said earlier about not letting any harm come to her. He wanted to stay with her as long as it took to know that she was going to be okay. She shuddered silently in her sleep, probably suffering from a nightmare. John thought back to his own nightmare he had been having before Skylar woke him.

He had been dreaming of the fall. That awful day when Sherlock had leapt from the roof of St. Bart's hospital, leaving John alone once again. The images of the blood on the pavement had never left John, always coming back to haunt him in his sleep. For three years John was alone. He tried to tell himself that he had been through all this before when he was in the war in Afghanistan, that it really shouldn't bother him that much. He had seen his friends die right before his eyes before, and he had taught himself to go numb so that he would not be affected. Why this would not work with the loss of Sherlock John couldn't understand. Of all his nightmares of the war that plagued him before he met Sherlock when he would lose sleep, the nightmares filled with images of his friend splayed out on the ground surrounded by a grisly pool of blood were the worst. And though it had been a year since Sherlock's return, John still had the nightmares.

John had been thrown into shock when he came home to 221B to find the detective standing in the kitchen wrapped up in his long coat and scarf just as he always had worn, as if he never had left. Sherlock had tried to explain himself, but John punched him across the mouth before he could get very far. Sherlock had gripped his wrists so that John couldn't take another swing, but at this point John had dissolved into tears. Sherlock held him awkwardly as he cried, and after John broke away he patched up Sherlock's bloodied face as the detective told John what had happened in the past three years. John listened all through the night as the detective went on about how he had pursued each and every of the members of Moriarty's web. He explained the necessity of his death, and how he had managed to do it so convincingly. He broke down and apologized for what he had put everyone...but especially John... through. After that night Sherlock had moved back in to 221B and it was as if the detective had never left.

The same couldn't be said for John. Even after a year he was still suffering. Though his limp was gone once again, it having come back after Sherlock's death, John was still crippled by these nightmares.

He heard his phone buzz from the pocket of his jacket draped across the chair he had been sitting in before. Gently extricating himself from Skylar's arms he sat up on the edge of the bed, reaching for his coat. Upon fishing his phone out of the pocket he saw that it was a text from Sherlock.

I'm at the hospital. I'll be with you in a moment. -SH

John sighed and got up to stand in the hallway to wait for Sherlock. Sure enough, the detective showed up a moment later, walking swiftly up to John.

"Have you got anything?" the detective asked, removing his gloves as he did and placing them in his coat pockets.

"Yeah but not much. She's asleep now Sherlock, leave her be." the detective had been moving as if to go into the room to interrogate Skylar himself, seeing as John had not got an adequate amount of information from her. John pressed a hand to the detectives chest, pushing him lightly away from the door.

"Well what have you got?" the detective huffed, slightly affronted.

"Her name's Skylar, but that's all she knows. She suffered a minor concussion, but it was enough to wipe her memories. She can't remember anything before waking up strapped to that chair. She's suffering from a severe case of amnesia, and she had to learn her own name from Amy Nash." he sighed.

Sherlock lowered his eyebrows in concentration. "That's all she knows? No no no, that isn't all she knows, she just can't remember what she really knows. It's there, in her mind, she just doesn't have access to it. It's important information, the kind she suffered through weeks of torture to conceal." Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of John, gesturing wildly as he went on.

"Weeks?" John swallowed, shocked by the revelation.

"Yes, John, you would just have to look at those cuts on her arm." he muttered under his breath to John, not looking up from his pacing.

"Of course..." once again John was blown away at how incredibly observant his flatmate was. It shouldn't still be surprising to him, having known the detective for several years now, but it in fact never ceased to amaze the army doctor.

Sherlock stopped pacing suddenly, standing directly in front of John. "I need to talk to Amy Nash."

"Sherlock it's the middle of the night. Can't you at least wait until tomorrow?"

He scowled heavily at John before resuming his pacing. "I need to speak with her now, I need information now."

John heaved a sigh, leaning against the wall tiredly. Looking down at his watch he saw that it was now close to 2AM.

"Sherlock..." he almost moaned, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes and letting out a yawn.

"Hmm." he kept pacing.

"Don't you think you should-"

"I need to go to Scotland Yard."

"-get some sleep?"

Both men looked at each other. The detective ignored John's question, and instead turned and began to walk down the hall. "I'm going to talk to Lestrade and see if they've got anything yet." he called over his shoulder as he strode down the long hospital corridor.

The doctor watched him go for a moment before turning to enter Skylar's room, where he sat down on the uncomfortable chair and promptly closed his eyes and fell asleep.


	6. Interrogation

-Sherlock-

The detective pulled his gloves on as he strode out of the hospital doors, his breath fogging up in the chilly October air. He hailed a cab, his mind reeling as it processed the new information on...Skylar. It really was unfortunate that she was suffering from such severe amnesia, but Sherlock was certain that she would gain her memories back. It would only be a matter of time. Though he wasn't a patient man, in this case he was being forced to wait since the circumstances were out of his control.

Pulling up to the front of Scotland Yard Sherlock leaped nimbly from the cab, taking the steps two at a time. Once inside he headed straight for the interrogation center, where he found Lestrade leaning up against the wall outside one of the doors.

"Sherlock." the detective inspector greeted him tiredly, nodding to him as he approached.

"Anything interesting?"

"Well we know he isn't the loan shark. That man was with Amy Nash as they were trying to sneak out the back. We have no idea who this one is."

"Has he said anything?"

"Not one word. He hasn't done anything, hasn't hardly moved. He just stares off, looking at nothing in particular." Lestrade led the consulting detective into a room with a one-way mirror, looking in at another room holding a man handcuffed to the table. The man was indeed staring blankly ahead, his hair disheveled and a bruise blooming across his left cheekbone. His shirt had been torn at the shoulder, most likely from putting up a struggle.

"What methods have you been using?" Sherlock queried, walking up to the glass. He stared at the man with a blank expression, calculating and cold.

"We've tried several different angles, but still nothing. He just sits there and takes it." Sherlock was growing increasingly agitated at the miserly amount of information he was receiving. "Let me talk to him."

"Sherlock-"

"I need information, Lestrade. Since you lot are apparently inadequate you can at least let me try."

The weary DI heaved a sigh. "I don't see why not. I don't think you will get anywhere with him, but it's worth a shot." Sherlock followed him around to the door that led to the interrogation room. "In here."

Sherlock opened the door quietly, folding his hands behind his back as he walked in. The door closed behind him with a soft click. The handcuffed man raised his head slightly at the sound, but didn't turn to see who had entered. Sherlock walked around the room, staying near the walls. He studied the man as he did, trying to get any and all information he could just by looking at him.

He was holding his right knee at an awkward angle, and it was wrapped with thick bandages so to stop the bleeding from the gunshot wound John had fired. The cut on the left cheek indicates that he had been punched rather hard by a right-handed man during interrogation. The "Good Cop-Bad Cop" routine, proven ineffective. He has been trained to withstand interrogation. His shirt is expensive as are his pants, so he was not hurting for money. His hands, laid across the table being handcuffed as they were, are well moisturized and his nails trimmed. His hair had been carefully styled using gel but now was losing its' previous luster. He cares for his appearance, it's most likely that he has to for his profession. His shoes are expensive as well, though they are scuffed now from his recent capture.

Sherlock is startled out of his scrutinization by a sudden burst of laughter. The other man had thrown his head back and was now laughing maniacally. Sherlock considered him carefully for a moment, observing the man with great intrigue.

"Something funny?"

The man laughed for a minute more, unable to answer Sherlock through bouts of guffaws. Sherlock threw a glance at the mirror, raising his eyebrows slightly at the men behind the glass. He turned back to the laughing man to see him staring intently at him while his laughter subsided.

"I should have known," he chuckled darkly. His eyes roved up and down, taking in the tall form of the consulting detective. "I should have known it would be you."

"You know who I am then?" Sherlock sat in the chair opposite, studying the man opposite him.

"Of course I do. I've heard all about you, Sherlock Holmes." He sneered maliciously, his eyes glinting in the harsh light.

"Do you really? How interesting. Glad to see you read the papers, though most of the stuff they put in there is a load of rubbish. Hardly worth reading."

"I don't read the papers."

Sherlock leaned forward eagerly. "So you've researched me then."

"Not in the slightest."

Eyebrows mashed together, the detective leaned his elbows on the table and pressed his hands together in his usual thinking pose, his fingers pressed to his lips.

"We have never met before." he spoke around his fingers.

"No. Shame really." the corner of the other man's mouth curled upwards in a sinister smile.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don't know yours."

"Sorry about that. My name is Robbie Walters. I would shake your hand but..." he rattled his cuffs against the table to prove his point.

"Is that your real name?"

"Of course it is! Why would I lie to you Sherlock?" He pulled an innocent expression on his face that was tinged with mockery, his lips forming a small pout. "I mean, you could probably tell if I were lying right away couldn't you? The great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Oh, I have waited a long time to meet you." He leaned forward, closing the distance between the two men by a few feet. "It really is nice to finally meet you in person." The younger man in handcuffs smiled at the detective, his head tilted to the side as they studied each other.

"The pleasure... is all mine." the detective said thoughtfully, returning his brown-eyed stare with his own steely grey one.

"Well, now that we're done with the pleasantries..." he reclined in the metal chair as if it weren't as cold and unyielding as it was. "Let's get down to the nitty-gritty. You undoubtedly have questions, let's hear them."

Sherlock smiled knowingly. He could practically hear the officers scrambling for their pens and pads of paper in the room behind the mirror.

"The young woman we found in your possession."

"Sorry, who?" he blinked innocently.

"The woman. Slight build, long braided black hair, arms covered in marks inflicted by your hand with a very sharp knife. We found her strapped to a chair beaten within an inch of her life and bleeding all over the floor. You had been threatening to end her life by means of a gun in the few minutes before you knew you would be discovered. She was unforthcoming, and you were either so desperate for the information or you were just careless, because you ended up here. Her name is Skylar, and you obviously wanted information from her, information important enough to you that you resorted to torture in order to get what you needed. It didn't work though did it?"

"Skylar. So that's her name then. You got more out of her than I did, that's certain." he laughed, as if he were sharing a joke with the detective. Sherlock didn't react, instead moved with the interrogation.

"What does she know? What information did you want so badly from her?"

"Ah." the younger man's expression slid smoothly from amused to sinister while still managing to keep a smile in place. "You see, I don't think I'm going to tell you that bit. It's sort of a secret you see. I made a pinky promise that I wouldn't tell." he winked slyly at Sherlock while waggling the smallest finger on his hand.

Sherlock leaned forward, lacing his fingers together as he laid his arms out on the table. "Pinky promise to whom?"

The younger man only laughed. "Oh, you're a funny one you are. Of course I can't tell you that, what do you think I am, an idiot?" at the end of his sentence his face transitioned once more from teasing to malignant. If it were anyone but Sherlock it might have been terrifying, but the detective looked on with indifference to the younger man's rapid mood swings.

"Just thought I might ask. Correct me if I'm wrong-" Sherlock smiled inwardly at his own private joke, "-but just a few moments before you were arrested you were in the middle of an...interrogation...with Miss Skylar. It was apparent from her physical state that things weren't going your way. Were you indeed planning on killing her or was that just a scare tactic?"

He didn't answer right away, just smirked slightly for a while as if he knew a dirty secret and was contemplating on whether or not to tell it. "You're right. She's a strong one, that one. Most of the time she would just sit there, not saying a word. She wouldn't even scream." he pouted, as if he had just found out his the invitation to his friends' birthday party had been lost in the mail. "The last time was different though, she wasn't hiding anything. Sure she still wasn't saying anything, but she was letting everything show. She was so scared, and when I cut her, she actually screamed. Oh, it was glorious." he smiled widely, staring off as if he were remembering a fond memory.

Sherlock waited for him to continue, knowing that he would. He was gloating now, smiling and proud of the things he had done. It would have sickened anyone else to hear this man talk about inflicting pain on anyone as if he were talking about a hobby, but then again Sherlock wasn't your "average" person.

"Then your cute little army doctor interrupted our chat before things could get interesting. I wasn't really going to shoot her, you were right. It was a scare tactic. I'll have you know that bullets hurt a lot. It's definitely more fun to shoot people than to actually be on the receiving end-"

"How did you know that?"

"Well I've shot people before, Sherlock, it's my job-"

"No, how did you know he was an army doctor?"

Suddenly the younger man was laughing again, his head thrown back with the force of his laughter. "You mean John? Little John Watson, your flatmate? Your best friend?" he chuckled quietly. "Yeah, I know all about him too."

"How? Where are you getting this information? Who is your informant?"

"Sorry," he scowled playfully. "that was a pinky promise too."

The intrigue was building in intensity for Sherlock; he was growing more and more excited about the case by the minute. He thrill of it was buzzing in his veins, his mind wheeling the longer it went on. It was his drug, the only thing that kept him going. It was a challenge for his mind, letting it work at the puzzle was the only time he felt at rest. This fact was very backwards, but it worked out for him. He could only find peace of mind when he was at work.

"You said before that shooting people was your job. Who do you work for? Oh wait, let me guess, that was a pinky promise as well."

He only shrugged, a falsely sheepish look on his face. He grinned awkwardly at the detective, his eyes glinting.

The detective observed him carefully, taking in every detail while the other man stared petulantly back. They regarded each other coldly for a while. Sherlock knew that he would get no information from the strange man, so he stood to leave the room.

"Thank you for your cooperation, it was very enlightening."

"I'll see you around Sherlock. This isn't goodbye, I hope."

"Sure."

"My friend was right about you." Sherlock paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. "You're quite extraordinary. They talk about you a lot. They're a big fan of yours."

Sherlock ignored the cold feeling rushing down his spine at the familiar words, and silently walked out the door.


	7. Brain Damage

-Skylar-

I woke up to the sound of lowered voices, and prying open my eyes blearily, I saw that John Watson was standing to the side of my bed conversing quietly with a doctor.

"She woke up last night with no memories except from when she had apparently found herself in that chair we found her strapped to." John muttered to the other doctor. Their backs were turned, so neither of the two could see that I was now awake and listening to their conversation.

"None at all?" the doctor whispered worriedly back, and upon seeing John shake his head in the affirmative, sighed heavily. "That is unfortunate..." he scribbled something on the clipboard he held in his hands.

"Will she get her memories back?" John asked, his voice lilting with hope.

"There is no way to say for sure. The mind is a delicate thing. It is most likely that while going through her...ordeal...she suffered from a sharp blow to the head that caused enough damage to her brain that it cleared it of memories. We really don't know for sure if her memories will return, it differs from person to person. This is not a normal enough occurrence where we are fully able to say whether or not she will get them all back."

"In other cases like hers...have they gotten their memories back?"

"In some cases, yes. They have gotten some back, sometimes in large amounts and sometimes small. In some instances they came back through a trigger, or even at times while the victim is dreaming."

John breathed a sigh. "Thank you doctor."

The doctor placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Are you all right John? You look a wreck."

"I'm fine, it was just a long night last night."

"If you need anything I'll be around, all right? See you." He opened the door, and walked swiftly out into the hall. John rubbed his face tiredly and turned around to see me looking curiously at him. "Ah," he said uncertainly. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks." I replied, my voice thick from sleep. "I heard you two talking about me."

A sheepish look crossed his features as he walked over to his chair to sit at my side. "I'm sorry about that, did we wake you?"

"No, I was about to wake up anyway," I reassured him. "What about you? Are you all right, John?" He did in fact look like a wreck, he had large bruise-like bags under his drooping eyes, and he was rubbing his neck as if it were paining him.

"This chair is not the most comfortable thing to sleep on is all." he chuckled wearily.

As silence fell between us I was suddenly overwhelmed by my current situation. "John..." I swallowed as a lump rose in my throat. "I'm scared."

He blinked, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. "Why? You're safe now, you know."

"I know that, but..." My eyes pricked with the tears that were threatening to slip down my cheeks. "I...I don't know who I am!"

He reached out to place his hand over mine. I felt the subtle flutter of my heart as his fingers curled around my own. He seemed at a loss for words once again.

"I don't know anything!" I wailed, the tears sliding down my face. "I don't know who I was before...this...happened." I gestured to my forehead with my free hand.

"Don't worry about it right now." he said soothingly, squeezing my fingers. "Let's just focus on getting you better, getting you out of here, and then we can sort all this out."

I took a shuddering breath. "But even after this...I don't know where to go! I have no money, nowhere to go..."

John sat up abruptly. "Wait a minute," he muttered to himself. He looked at me curiously, as if he were asking himself a question. "I'll be right back." With that he let go of my hand and slipped out into the hallway.

-John-

He slipped his mobile out of his pocket and hurriedly typed out a text to Sherlock.

We're having company. Get rid of any bloody body parts you have lying around. -JW

-Sherlock-

The detective set down his violin as he hears his mobile pinging from within his dress robe, pulling it out with a flourish. He scowls at the text he reads there. It was from John.

We're having company. Get rid of any bloody body parts you have lying around. -JW

The detective glanced up at the kitchen, sure enough there were several severed fingers in varying stages of decomposition scattered about, along with a beaker of blood he was running some tests on.

Scowling, Sherlock speedily typed out a reply.

I can't just throw them out, I'm at an important stage in the experiment. -SH

The detective picked up his violin and began playing once more when he was again interrupted by a ping from his phone. He paused before reading the text, his mind elsewhere. Who would be coming over? Oh of course, miss Skylar. If it were anyone else coming over John wouldn't have cared if they saw disembodied limbs lying about, the only people who usually visited had seen it all before. And John never brought his dates back to 221B if he could help it. Just as well it was just past eight in the morning, John wouldn't be on a date seeing as he spent the previous night at the hospital.

He returned his focus to the new text he had just received.

Throw them out, they've started to smell. Open up a window. -JW

The detective sat perched atop his chair as he replied.

Is she even cleared to leave the hospital, John? I was under the impression that she had extensive injuries that required intensive care. -SH

I am a doctor, you know. She's going to be staying with us for a while until she gets better. So throw out whatever you've got in the kitchen and put on some clothes. -JW

Im wearing clothes. -SH

You can't blame me for making sure. You went to bloody Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet if I remember correctly. -JW

Sherlock cracked a crooked grin at the memory. That had been years ago now, but he could remember it as if it were yesterday. It was a fond memory that he found himself ruminating on from time to time, back before everything went wrong. His grin slipped away, and he shoved those painful memories of three years on the run, posing as strangers with names different from his own in the back of his mind, locked away in a dark corner of his mind palace.

Both of the rooms in 221B are taken, John. -SH

She can have mine. I'll sleep on the sofa. It's not permanent, Sherlock. Just until she gets better. -JW

And how long until then? -SH

There was no reply for several minutes. Sherlock sat perched on the top of his chair, arms resting on his knees and hands pressed together in front of his face. He soon became lost in his mind palace, sorting through information and going over facts and figures, and didn't notice when his phone pinged with another message from John.

I don't know. -JW

-Skylar-

"I'm coming to stay with you?"

After John had left he had apparently gone to find the doctor I had seen earlier, and had asked him about my being released from the hospital. He had only just come back to tell me I could leave that same day, and had told me I was going to be staying with him at his flat.

"Yes, that's partly why you're being released so soon. I'm a doctor too, so I can get you out of here and take care of you myself." he blushed slightly, glancing down at his shoes. "If...if you'd like that, I mean..."

"You're a doctor?" I asked, accidentally ignoring his offer with my overruling curiosity.

"I was an army doctor in Afghanistan."

"Oh..." that was not what I was expecting, but I wasn't surprised. It explained a lot.

Another awkward silence fell between us as we both tried to find out what to say. Eventually he cleared his throat.

"So...is that what you want? To come stay with me, get out of here, let me take care of you? Or would...you rather stay here...?"

"No. I mean, yes, I would like to get out of here. That would be nice, I mean. Thank you."

His face lit up in a smile that made my stomach flip. I returned his smile affectionately.

"Would you like to leave now? I could call for a cab."

"Yes, let's go now. I need to get out of here."

"Right. Okay. Here..." he started unhooking several of the monitors, his fingers ghosting over my skin as he carefully peeled them off. I bit my lip when he removed the IV from my arm, turning away as I felt the needle slip out of my flesh. I didn't want to see it for fear that I would throw up.

"You okay?" John asked, his eyes full of concern.

I swallowed. "Needles."

"Sorry about that, I didn't know." he berated himself.

"No you're all right, they just make me feel sick is all."

He turned off several of the monitors, and as soon as he was done he turned to face me. "You ready?"

Slowly I sat up, John placing a steady hand on my arm. I carefully swung my legs over the side of the bed, realizing something as I did so.

"Erm...John..."

"What is it?"

I looked up at him through my lashes, trying to hide the blush that was creeping up over my cheekbones. "I'm in a hospital gown. I can't go out like this." I was suddenly very aware of my bare back showing through the slit in the back of the gown.

He blushed. "Oh. Right. I'll just, erm, I'll be right back."

He soon returned with a plain pair of scrubs, folded neatly. "The clothes we found you in were thrown out, so these will have to do for now, I hope that's all right..." he handed them to me, not looking me in the eye. He stood there for a moment longer, glancing up at my eyes occasionally, nervously.

"Erm, John?"

"Hm?"

"Could you possibly...step out for a moment?"

"Oh! Right, of course. Right. I'll just, erm, be out here."

"Thanks."

"You don't need any help...?"

I blushed. "I'll manage..."

"Right." he ducked out if the room, leaving me alone to get dressed. I winced as the fabric scraped against my tender and bruised skin. I wobbled slightly as I stood, but I was able to keep my balance. I shivered as the cold floor leeched the warmth out of my bare feet. That was another thing I was lacking; shoes. Shuffling around a bit through the drawers in the room I found a scratchy pair of hospital socks. It was better than nothing. After slipping them on I opened the door to find John waiting anxiously outside. He turned around, appraising my new attire quickly and giving me a small smile.

"Ready?" he offered me his arm and I gripped it gratefully, as I was still a bit unsteady on my feet. I only smiled as he led me down the hospital corridors, past several onlookers who smiled at us as we passed. He led me out the door and helped me into a waiting cab.

"221B Baker street, please." And the cab sped off taking us through the winding streets of London. I stared out the window in wonder, taking in the unfamiliar sights of the bustling city. I barely noticed John staring intently at me for the duration of the ride.

"Here we are." the cabbie remarked cheerfully.

"Right, hang on." John got out and came around to open my door, helping me to stand. I winced as the movement jostled my injured body. I was soon distracted by a large door reading "221B" in front of me. John paid the cabbie, then walked ahead of me to open the door.

"This is us." he smiled as I stepped inside.


	8. Aftereffects

John placed a hand on my elbow and the small of my back as he led me up the stairs, and I was grateful for the support. I most likely would have collapsed if he hadn't been holding me steady. Even so, I was breathing heavily when we reached the landing at the top of the stairs.

"You all right?" He asked, holding me steady when I started weaving back and forth. My head was pounding dizzily, and my heart was thumping in my chest from the physical exertion.

"Just...winded." I gave him a small smile.

"Let's get you inside." He let go of my elbow to turn the doorknob and used his shoulder to shove the door open. I took the opportunity to glance around the flat when I stepped in, but I noticed right away that we were not alone.

A tall man in a white dress shirt was standing near an open window, the slight breeze ruffling his soft brown curls. His hands were clasped behind his back and he was staring contemplatively down at the street as we walked in. When he turned around I was surprised to see a contemptful glare on his face. His eyes locked on me, and his expression hardened. I was taken aback at the hostility in his expression.

Have I done something wrong?

John didn't notice the other man while led me over to a sofa, setting me down carefully as I relaxed into the cushions. He did however notice the look of distress and confusion on my face, and followed my gaze.

"Ah...erm...Skylar this is Sherlock Holmes, my...erm..."

"I believe the term you are looking for is 'flatmate' John." he quipped, shooting a venemous glare at John before his cold eyes returned to me.

John gave Sherlock an exasperated look, before he turned back to me. "How are you feeling?"

Snapping out of my momentary confusion, I smiled at John. "I'm fi-"

"Obviously she's exhausted John, all you have to do is observe. She was practically falling over when you got out of the cab. She almost didn't make it up the stairs, and was leaning heavily on you as you walked in. She's shaking from the physical exertion, due to the weeks of imprisonment and torture she endured and paired with the fact that she was given little food and water which left her malnourished, she simply doesn't have the strength. She is also recouperating from her recent blood loss, a substantial amount might I add, and she isn't handling it very well going by the tremor in her hands and the shortness of breath. You may also want to replace her bandages with fresh ones, and check on her wrist. It's started to bleed again." with that he stormed past John and into the hallway past the kitchen, and a few seconds later I heard a door slam.

There were a few moments of tense silence as neither of us knew what to say. I was speechless, my mouth hanging open a fraction.

"H...how did he..."

With a sigh, John sat beside me on the sofa, taking my arm in his gentle hands to carefully unwrap the bandages. "Sherlock...is highly observant to say the least. He's been that way ever since I met him. He considers himself a 'highly functioning sociopath,' so he tends to come off rude like that. It's not just you, don't worry about it. He's like that with everyone, even me." I jerked my hand out of his grasp reflexively with a hiss; he had accidentally brushed up against a particularly painful patch of skin on my wrist.

"Sorry, sorry." I returned my hand to his so he could continue unwrapping the bandages, albeit more gently this time. My wrists were now burning faintly as the raw skin was exposed when John removed the last of the bandages, and my eyes widened as I saw the extent of the damage. I started to feel queasy at the sight of my bloody skin at my wrists as well as the thin lines lacing across my arm. I gasped when I saw that some of them had been stitched shut, the skin around the cuts red and jagged. I flinched when I saw that some of the more severe cuts were oozing blood from between the stitches.

"Sky-are you okay?" I hadn't realized that I was close to hyperventillating, my breaths coming is short gasps. My stomach dropped, churning in discomfort. John reached out to me, gripping me firmly by the shoulders. I fought him, twisting to get out of his strong hold.

"Let me go let me go let me go!" I shouted, my eyes out of focus as I struggled with the strong hands trying to pin me down.

-John-

It all happened so quickly. John was removing the bandages from around Skylar's arms when she suddenly got this wild look in her eyes, and her breathing hitched as she started to hyperventillate.

"Sky-are you okay?" He reached out to wrap his fingers around her upper arms, her body shaking as she stared wildly at her arms. She tried to shake him off, fighting surprisingly hard in her weakened state.

"Let me go let me go let me go!" she shouted, her voice breaking. She sounded nothing like the sweet young woman he was coming to know. She sounded dangerous and afraid, like a cornered animal. John tried to subdue her by pinning her to the sofa so she would cause no further harm to herself, but it only made her writhe harder. She began to scream, thrashing around wildly which caused her wounds to bleed through the stitches.

"Sherlock!" John called out, not knowing what else to do. He had brought home medical supplies from the hospital, but his bag was across the room. "Sherlock!" he called again when he looked up to see if the detective had come.

The detective burst in from the kitchen, glancing around wildly for the source of the trouble. His eyes landed on John and widened as he appraised the situation.  
"Sherlock in my bag, get the sedative. Hurry, she's hurting herself!" John yelled, desperate. Skylar was clawing at him with her nails, digging them in to his skin as she fought to get him off of her. He didn't stop her however, not wanting to cause her wrists any more damage than had already been inflicted. He gritted his teeth when she dug in her nails at his shoulder, his chest, his arms. She was crying and screaming at him, begging him incoherently to let her go.

"Sherlock!"

"Here," the detective held out to him a syringe. John looked up at him as Skylar thrashed about; she was now slamming her head back into the sofa repeatedly as tears coursed down her face.

"Hold her down," John ordered brusquely, grabbing the syringe from Sherlock as the detective held Skylar down by the shoulders. John gripped her by her wrist, causing her to cry out in pain. He gritted his teeth and held her arm steady as he injected the sedative into the flesh in the crook of her elbow.

Both men sat back and watched as the fight went out of the small woman, her screams quieted to whimpers and her wild eyes slid shut. Soon enough she was unconscious.

John and Sherlock stood as they watched Skylar relax. Neither of them moved for several moments, each listening to the sounds of her now even breathing. Sherlock was the first to break the silence.

"What happened John?"


	9. Explanations

-John-

"What happened, John?"

Those words echoed brokenly around the inside of John's skull. He didn't understand how one so small could have that much strength when she had previously had none. His arms were stinging from the deep furrows Skylar's nails had dug into his skin. He ran his fingers over them without looking down at the damage, but when he pulled them away his fingers were sticky with blood. He wasn't sure if it was his or not. The sight made him physically sick, his stomach churning. Her screams wouldn't leave his mind, etching themselves into his memory much like her nails had done.

Sherlock was staring down at the sleeping form on the sofa, his eyes running up and down her body as if searching for clues.

"John."

John still hadn't looked up from her face. The manic hysteria had been replaced by a drug-induced peacefulness. Her eyes fluttered occasionally, but other then that she was still. A strand of hair had fallen into her eyes, tangled I her dark lashes. Joh desperately wanted to reach out and push it away-

"John."

"What?" He mumbled distractedly.

"What happened?"

"She...she just..." He glanced up to see Sherlock pacing from across the room. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, his palms pressed together in front of his face.  
"What was the trigger John?"

John turned away from Skylar to sit in his chair, Sherlock pacing in front of him. "The trigger?"

Sherlock was growing increasingly agitated. "The trigger, yes, the trigger! Something happened that caused her to remember a memory that her mind was trying to shield herself from which caused her panic attack. I would think it obvious enough for you to to realize that she has post traumatic stress disorder, you having experienced it yourself. The signs are incredibly unambiguous, even Anderson could have gathered as much. Please do keep up, John. Now tell me exactly what happened before she lost herself."

John had only been listening to half of what Sherlock had been saying, having been too occupied sending concerned glances at Skylar sleeping on the sofa. Sherlock shot him a double take, saw that he was not paying attention, then sat down in his own armchair with a heavy sigh. He threw his legs over one arm of the chair while throwing his head back over the other. "In your own time, John." He remarked sarcastically.

John shot a glare at the detective that went by unnoticed, the detective had thrown an arm over his face in his miniature tantrum. Perturbed, John turned his body so he was fully facing the sullen detective.

"It was her arms."

At this Sherlock looked up in interest, staring at John from under his arm as he relayed what had happened.

"After you...walked out, I sat down on the sofa and began to redress her bandages. She saw her arms, saw the cuts, and then she got this look in her eyes. Like she didn't recognize anything. She started hyperventilating, I tried to help and she..." He trailed off, his voice growing quieter. "You saw the rest."

Neither of the men spoke, but simultaneously looked over to where Skylar lay on the sofa. Both men watched her breathing for several moments in silence, both with very different emotions in their eyes.

"It would be conducive that you redress her bandages before she wakes up, we wouldn't want any more incidences like the last time." With that the detective stood and walked over to the window to pick up his violin.

"Sherlock don't, she's sleeping-"

"She's in a drug-induced sleep and won't be woken up any time soon. I need to think." He began playing a slow melody, but John noticed that he was playing a bit more quietly than he usually did. John got and picked up his bag of medical supplies when there was a small knock on the door.

"Boys what's all the fuss about? I thought I heard screaming and-oh!" John looked up to see the elderly landlady, Mrs. Hudson, enter the flat. Her weathered hands fluttered up to cover her mouth as she saw Skylar, eyes widening.

"Mrs. Hudson it's all right-" John started to explain, but her eyes widened even further when she looked at John. He glanced down at himself realizing that he must look a fright. His shirt was blotted with blood, he having taken off his jumper before he began to redress Skylar's wounds. The claw marks on his arm had turned an angry red, blood welling up from a few of the deeper cuts. His hands were still covered in blood, both his and Skylar's. He hadn't yet had the chance to wash them off. He sighed, realizing that with a battered and bloodied woman lying on their sofa and he himself covered in blood and cuts, this must look like a rather grisly scene.  
"Mrs. Hudson I can explain..."

He proceeded to tell the elderly lady all that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, leaving out the more gruesome details. She took it all in quietly, the frightened expression replaced with that of sympathy and worry. She would look over to the young woman every so often as John explained the situation, and when John had finished she looked close to tears.

"The poor dear...no one should ever have to go through something like that. Oh, she must have been terrified." She took a small step closer to the doctor to whisper, "But you know, I think she'll turn out it be just fine, especially is she has you to watch over her. I think you're just what she needs right now John." From across the room Sherlock turned around to look back and forth between John and Skylar, his expression indiscernible. Neither John nor Mrs. Hudson noticed.

John stood there blinking at his landlady for a moment, then followed her gaze to once again look at Skylar.

"I think I'll just go see if I can't find her some proper clothes. She can't wear those scrubs around in public, it just won't do."

"Mrs. Hudson you don't have to-I can get her some clothes-"

"It's all right John. I hope you don't mind me saying this but I think she would prefer that a woman found her something to wear. I'll be back later, I'm sure I can find her something."

"You're a saint, Mrs. Hudson." John smiled as he rubbed the back of his neck. The landlady only waved as she tottered back down the stairs. John retreated to the kitchen to wash off the blood before kneeling at Skylar's side and gently started redressing her wounds. She hardly stirred; the effects of the sedative not having completely run it's course. Her eyes still flickered occasionally, as if she were battling the drug and trying to open them.

Once he was satisfied with her clean bandages he looked himself over to check his own injuries. They were not severe in the least, though they did sting. He decided to simply disinfect them and leave them to heal themselves, not wanting to waste any bandages unnecessarily in himself. He stood and glanced about the flat, subconsciously looking for Sherlock. It had become a habit of his; constantly checking for the detective. He had been doing it since after the fall, when he would look around in vain for his friend. Since the return he had unconsciously kept up the habit, though now he did it for reassurance that he was indeed still there and that it wasn't all just a dream. He found the detective perched in his chair, deep in his mind palace and oblivious to his surroundings for the moment.

Suddenly John's stomach clenched uncomfortably, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since the day before. He hadn't been able to eat dinner the night previous; Sherlock had been adamant that they finish the case. Upon opening the fridge, he found it empty except for several plastic bags with assorted contents in each; all entirely inedible. He found the cupboards to be barren of foodstuffs as well. With a sigh, he left the kitchen to pull on his jumper. As he grabbed his jacket and walked out the door he heard Sherlock call out to him.

"I need more nicotine patches, John. Get me some."

"Wouldn't hurt to say please," John muttered to himself. He trumped down the stairs and hoped that for her sake Skylar would not wake up while he was out.


	10. Affronted

I blinked my heavy eyes as I came back to myself, my head cloudy and thick from the sedatives. At first I was unsure of where I was, not recognizing my surroundings at first glance. It took me a moment to remember that I was in John's flat at 221B Baker Street. Not moving from my spot on the sofa I looked up at the patterned wallpaper decorated with what looked like a yellow smiley face perforated with bullet holes.

I sat up slowly, wary of my aching body riddled with bruises that were steadily darkening. I reached up to rub the sleep out of my eyes, avoiding the bandages on my forehead and nose, when I noticed the fresh bandages on my arms. A flood of memories swept through my mind, reminding me of the few moments before I was knocked out. My breath hitched in my throat as I was hit with just the memory of the panic I had felt at the sight of the blood seeping from ragged flesh and countless stitches...then an even more painful realization hit me.

I had attacked John.

I remembered every moment of what I had done. I remembered losing my mind for a few minutes, screaming my lungs out and clawing at John. I had tried to hurt him, hoping he would get off of me so I could run away. Thinking back on it I had no idea where I would run. Looking down at my now-shaking hands I saw John's blood caked under my nails from having dug them into his skin. I clasped my hands together and pressed them into my lap so that I did not have to look at them any longer, but the memories of what I had done still plagued my mind, wracking me with guilt.

What have I done?

Silent tears slipped down my cheeks. I had to get away from here. I was dangerous, unsafe even in my own mind. Who was to say that I wouldn't lose myself just as I had done earlier again? I had already injured John, I couldn't run the risk of doing it again. I shouldn't be here. Glancing around I saw that I was alone, so I stood and walked quickly and quietly to the door, hoping to slip out undetected.

"I would consider leaving to be inadvisable, Miss Skylar." A cold voice startled me.

I whirled around to see Sherlock Holmes walking in through the kitchen, then turning to stand facing me with his hands clasped carefully behind his back. His startling blue-grey eyes were unreadable as they stared into my own.

"I...I don't know what you mean..." I don't know why I tried to lie to him, because somewhere I knew that he would be able to see straight through it. I stared at my feet as I tried to hide the embarrassed blush creeping up onto my cheeks. 

"No, you know perfectly well what I mean. Were you not just attempting to leave the flat in nothing but a pair of hospital scrubs and socks? You would freeze in this kind of weather, especially with the storm blowing in." I looked out at the window to see that it was snowing lightly. I shiver at the thought of walking out into that weather dressed as I am.

"I...I was just..." I don't know what to say. As if to fill in for my lack of literacy, I notice that there has been a drop in temperature in the room since I had last been awake. Suddenly freezing, I wrap my arms around myself and rub away the goosebumps forming across my skin.

Sherlock notices my discomfort. "Why don't you just come back inside and sit down." I reluctantly step away from the door and shuffle back to the sofa. I curl into myself slightly to ward off the chill from the flat, which catches Sherlock's eye. He quickly scrounges up a throw blanket and tosses it to me offhandedly. I look up into his face to look for any sort of sign that would prove to me his motive for the kindness, but he is no longer looking at me. I quietly wrap that blanket around myself and lean back into the sofa to warm my cold toes. There was an uncomfortable silence that lingers in the air like cigarette smoke; dank and sour, making it hard to breathe. Sherlock moves across the room and plants himself on the chair next the the unlit fireplace where he simply sits and stares at me, his palms pressed together under his nose.

I blush and avoid his intense stare, clasping my own hands together in my lap and staring at the floor in front of me. My heartbeat increases slightly when he doesn't look away; his cool eyes burning.

"Why-why are you staring at me?" I stammer.

"I am not simply staring at you. I am thinking, and you happen to be the subject of interest."

After a moment I notice that my mouth is hanging open, and I snap it shut quickly and look back down at my hands. Another heavy moment of silence passes between us where Sherlock sits there staring at me. I wonder what he could possible be thinking about, when I realize that I missed something important.

"Where is John?"

He doesn't get the chance to answer before I hear a door opening downstairs accompanied with the sounds of rustling plastic bags. Anxious to escape Sherlock's gaze I leap up and practically run down the stairs to see John closing the door behind him. He sets the bags down and looks up to see me just before I knock him over with the force of my greeting. I wrap my arms around his neck, catching him off-guard.

"Oh, erm...Hello Skylar." He tentatively wraps his arms around me as I bury my face into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so so sorry I...I..." I can't hold back any longer as the tears begin to slip down my cheeks. John rubs my back comfortingly, obviously confused at my sudden outburst. I don't see him shoot a heated glare up the stairs behind me.

"Shh, It's okay now. You're fine, everything's fine. Come on then, let's get you upstairs." He lets me go and steps back, but not before he gives me a squeeze and a small kiss to my forehead. I blush through my tears, and wipe them away with the back of my hand. John stoops to pick up the bags of groceries, refusing my offers to help. He walks up the stairs ahead of me, and I trail reluctantly behind.

As we enter the flat I notice that in my absence Sherlock has taken to staring up at the ceiling, his legs draped over the arm of the chair. I blink in surprise to see in his hands is a human skull. He fiddles with it absentmindedly, turning it in his hands.

"Took you long enough, John." he remarks, still staring at the ceiling. I follow John into the kitchen, shooting occasional glances at Sherlock and his skull, eyeing it warily.

"Is that a real skull?" I whisper to John as I hide behind him in the kitchen. John looks up at me, glances at Sherlock, and then looks back at me with a worried expression in his eyes.

"It's...well it's..."

We were both surprised when Sherlock jumped up and headed for us, discarding the skull on his chair. He began rooting around in the various bags that John had brought in, grumbling to himself. "Where are the nicotine patches, John?" he barks.

John heaves a sigh and pulls out a box from the bag nearest him, tossing it to Sherlock. "Here, you sorry lump." But Sherlock either did not hear John's jibe or elected to ignore it, because he retreated from the kitchen and returned to his armchair, ripping open the small box and tossing the unnecessary bits aside. John plastered a smile on his face and turned back to me, but I could see his frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

I watched as John began putting together a small meal for me. Even though the portions were small due to the fact that I was still getting used to having normal amounts of food in my stomach, my mouth still watered in anticipation. I had only been given a meager cup of water, a small roll, and a bowl of applesauce at the hospital, and my stomach growled at the sight of the sandwich that John was making for me. He handed it to me and I bit into it eagerly, repressing a moan of appreciation. John filled a glass of water for me, and I drank that down as well after quickly finishing off my sandwich.

John watched me as I ate, but it wasn't as uncomfortable as when Sherlock had been watching me. John was less calculating and more concerned, exuding comfort rather than a lack of approbation. I finished quickly, glancing up at John as I set down my empty glass of water.

"Thank you." I said quietly, giving him a small smile.

He looked me over with concern still prevalent in his eyes. "You look tired."

I looked down at my hands clasped in my lap once again. "I'm fine..." I demurred. It was a lie, however. I was in fact feeling tired once again; my eyes threatening to slip shut.

John didn't buy it. "Come on, let's get you to bed. You can have my room."

"No it's fine, I can sleep on the sofa-"

"You really can't. Sherlock is bound to keep you awake; he doesn't hardly sleep when he's on a case." John led me up the stairs to his bedroom. I avoided looking over at Sherlock as we passed through, but I could tell he had his eyes on me. I stopped outside the flat.

"On a case?"

John blinked with a sudden realization. "Oh...right I didn't tell you that bit. Sherlock is a consulting detective."

"A consulting detective? What's that mean?"

"Well...it's-"

"When the police are out of their league, which they almost always are because they are all incompetent, they come to me." Both John and I jumped when Sherlock appeared at the doorway, neither of us noticing him walk toward us. On-edge as I was, his sudden appearance startled me and I found myself gripping John's upper arm and stepping behind him so I was unwittingly hiding myself from the intruder. Sherlock's eyes flickered over my hand grasping at John, then returned to my face.

"You're a detective?" I asked again, slightly incredulous.

He raised his chin defiantly, as if daring me to try him. "Would you like me to prove it to you?"

"Sherlock, no. Not now-" John interceded, but Sherlock wasn't listening.

"I know from the bruises and cuts on your face that the man who hit you was right-handed and wearing a ring. I know that while you were under that same man's jurisdiction you were drugged, beaten by means of closed fists and at times blunt objects, and tortured for information by means of a knife that was at times heated to intensify the pain. I know that you are currently suffering from an extreme case of Amnesia as well as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, but the PTSD is not from your recent traumatic experience; you've had it for much longer than that going by the state of your fingernails"

"Sherlock, stop. You're scaring her-"

"Lastly I know that you are attracted to John going by the way you cling to him like a lost child and the way you blush when he looks at you, but I would advise against any pursuit of a romantic relationship with him. The man is never able to hold to any one romantic interest for long and he burns through them like a pack of cigarettes. So if you have any sense at all I would stay away, but seeing as you were attempting to run away due to your embarrassment over your attack on John, or maybe was it that you were scared that it might happen again? You have no sense at all. You most certainly will suffer more anxiety attacks, and if you ask me that may well put a damper on any future relationships the both of you would elect to pursue. Just a thought. Good night." He then turned and slammed the door in both of their open-mouthed faces.


	11. Reeling

-John-

John stood still for several moments as he processed what had just happened in the few minutes before. His blood pounded through his veins in his anger, but he was too shocked and frankly astounded at the venom Sherlock had spoken to them with to do anything but stare at the door that Sherlock had slammed in his face. He barely noticed his hands clenched tight in anger, too caught up in the shock of the moment. Sherlock had always been inconsiderate of the words he chose when speaking to others, and it was no different for the way he spoke to John. But this was on a whole different level. Sherlock had been downright toxic in the way he had spoken, something John had thought he had grown used to in the years of knowing the detective, but it still shocked him nonetheless. Considering that his attack had also seemingly come out of nowhere, it left John reeling on his feet and trying to come back to his senses.

Not to mention the way he had also spoken to Skylar. What had his words done to her?

John turned around slowly to see Skylar had retreated to stand against the far wall, huddling into herself with tears slipping down her face. She bit her lip fiercely as if to stop herself from making any sound, so fiercely that John was afraid she would draw blood. As it was he saw a small dot of red decorating her chapped and split lips at her worrying. John's anger became more prominent at the sight, and he had to resist the urge to throw open the door and leave Skylar in the hallway to confront the detective right then and there. But no, he had to take care of Skylar first. She was swaying on her feet, and if she had not had the wall as support John was sure she would have slumped to the floor and stayed there, curled up into a ball. John relaxed his fists and fixed a smile on his face the best he could as he approached the shaking young woman.

"Let's just get you upstairs all right?" He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and gave a squeeze, willing her to be all right with his eyes. She looked up at him with her own luminous green eyes swimming with tears. As he watched one fell from her lashes and dropped onto her cheek, leaving a small shimmering trail. John reached up and gently wiped it away with his thumb, watching her carefully for her reaction. Her face was a book left open for him to read, all of her emotions showing through her delicate features. Her wide eyes betrayed a deep pain and confusion; her eyes searching his for as if he were handing her a lifeline for her to hold on to. Her small hands were gripping at his arms just above the elbows again; digging in as if to cling to something real. His hand was still cupped to her cheek, his fingers pressed to her neck as he inadvertently read her pulse that fluttered like a small birds' wings.

John felt himself leaning forward without his own volition, his eyes flickering down to her lips. He stopped when he again saw the small drop of blood pooling there, and his eyes returned to hers once again. She still looked up to him with her eyes wide and scared, and he berated himself silently for having almost kissed her. She was in no state to be kissed at the moment; and though he wasn't sure what her reaction would be he was sure that it would only add to her immeasurable amount of confusion right now. With a sigh he pulled back and lowered his hand from her face to place it on her other shoulder.

"Are you all right, Skylar?" He paused only a moment before rethinking his question. "Actually no, I know you aren't, so don't tell me that you are. I don't really know what you're going through, but I do know what it is like to have PTSD. I understand that much of what you are going through."

She blinked a few times before replying quietly. "You...you had PTSD? What...what happened?"

John licked his lips nervously as memories of Afghanistan and other darker memories of The Fall came flooding back to him, but he pushed aside the pain and replaced it with a steady breath. He lowered his hands from her shoulders to her hands as he started pulling her up the stairs, talking as he did.

"I was an army doctor in Afghanistan with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I...I saw things..." He paused to clear his throat from the lump that had risen to block the words he was trying to get out. "I came back and I...I wasn't the same."

John trailed off, swallowing again thickly. Skylar was quiet behind him, but John felt a small exchange of pressure on his fingers as she gripped his more firmly in her own. They reached the door to his room, and John pushed it open with his free hand while glancing back at Skylar. She hesitated in the doorway, shifting nervously from foot to foot. John gave her a small smile as he gently pulled her into the room.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll just grab a few things, and then the place is yours." He let her hand go and watched as it gently floated back to her side like a feather falling. She unconsciously reached up with her right hand to grip her left elbow in a nervous stance, glancing around the room at the sparse furnishings. He could tell she was uncomfortable to be here; her nervousness poured off of her in waves. She avoided John's eyes while he glanced at her, collecting a few items of clothing from his wardrobe. When he looked back to her she was studiously looking down at her feet, a few strands of hair falling in her eyes. He crossed the room and brushed them away; carefully, slowly. He treated her like she was a young deer; move too fast and she would startle and hide herself away. She eventually raised her eyes to his again, looking up at him through her lashes and biting her lip again.

"I...about what happened before...when I...when I hurt you...I didn't mean it. I don't know what happened, I-" she started in a small voice but John stopped her mid-sentence.

"Skylar, Skylar- forget about it okay? I don't blame you for what happened. It wasn't your fault, so don't think about it anymore, okay? It doesn't matter."

She stared uncertainly into his eyes for several seconds before glancing back down to her feet. "Maybe...maybe he was right. Maybe..."

John straightened up and spoke with steel in his voice; a firmness that surprised Skylar in its conviction. "You don't listen to a word he said down there. You hear me now and forget everything he said to you. It wasn't true, not any of it. Don't think about it anymore because that doesn't matter either. Do you understand?" He reached up to cup her face in his hands once again so that she would look him in the eyes. She once again had that look of vulnerability and hurt that ignited a fire in John's chest, like a fierce protectiveness over this woman he had only just met. They both shared another moment in time where everything seemed to slow and the only thing either of them knew was the beating of hearts and the color of the others' eyes. John broke the moment by leaning in to place a small kiss on Skylar's cheek and stepping back.

"You should get some sleep." He muttered as he picked up his small bundle, walking around Skylar to stand by the door. She had a dazed sort of look on her face, and as John left the room he thought that he must have only added to her confusion by the kiss he could not explain having given to her. He himself felt just as confused as Skylar must be feeling at the moment, and he slumped down the stairs to confront his brooding flatmate.


End file.
